


Lock it up and leave

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not direly ill, delirious-type fever, but all sweaty and needy and clingy and a bit out of it. Dean shouldn't take advantage, but . . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lock it up and leave

**Author's Note:**

> written for [](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/profile)[**blindfold_spn**](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/) [prompt here](http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/3417.html?thread=3661657#t3661657)

Dean flips the air conditioner on and sneaks a peek out the blinds, just out of habit, and then spills salt along the windowsill. It’s a lazy Tuesday, lazy like how sun sometimes filters in through the windshield at one o’clock in the afternoon, Sam by his side and the highway zapping hard and straight away into the scorching horizon.

“You doing okay, Sammy?” he says when he turns.

“I’m not sick.” Sam is muttering it out against the pillow. “I’m just taking a nap.”

“You’re acting like you’re dying, man,” Dean says, because it is his fraternal duty to point out when Sam’s being a little bitch, to promote personal growth. Sam had collapsed on one of the beds the second they came in, like he hadn’t slept the past four hours of road while Dean kept that window rolled up and the music to a scratchy low.

Sam flips him off, a pathetic twitching of his middle finger against the acrylic, South-Western style bed sheets. He’s lain out like some suffering person on an elaborate sand painting, sweaty and sickly on a patterned canvas of maroon triangles and turquoise sun prints. The air conditioner clicks to life, whirring in the foreground while Dean cleans some knives and thinks about Death, eyes flicking to Sam’s long back at intervals.

He wonders about the block in Sam’s brain, hopes the drywall metaphor was inaccurate, not realistic and more extended, because he’d been there when they were younger every time Sam had kicked a hole through a motel room wall in anger, or by accident during a quick skirmish for a blanket. Yeah, Sam is a genius at punching through things that shouldn’t be breached, and the more he thinks about it, Dean is becoming less and less sure that his decision to just shove that thing back in Sam was a perfect plan, just to hope the tattered mess of a soul could be corded off effectively. There is bound to be a crack somewhere.

When he can’t stand it any longer — guns packed away and two Lifetime movies later, and twice as many Coors, room-temperature, the last one gone flat because he‘d only grabbed it after Sam hadn’t touched it, had just lain there in a pathetic heap and left his beer open on the bedside table — Dean rolls off the bed, onto his still-booted feet, and swings out of the motel room and into the dried-out spit of a parking lot. There are two dusty cars, one of them his, and a tumbleweed.

Taking a deep breath of dry heat, he turns to trudge down the walk, squinting in the daylight. He, somewhat belatedly, roots around his pockets for change, comes up with three quarters, two dimes, and a twenty dollar bill, and finds that none of these in any combination will get him a snack from the vending machine.

The back of his neck prickles. This specific ninety-eight degree, five percent humidity area of the world is getting to his head, clearing it out and leaving him feeling stranded, too lucid, in the middle of a desert. This specific stretch of New Mexico could be anywhere, but wherever they happen to be always feels the center of their world, Sam and Dean the only two points on the map with no other spot to triangulate their relation to.

That night, once the sun has set and the heat has dropped off like a thick cloth to leave a sparkling desert night, stars like tear glass, Dean sleeps like a log, if the log were the type that floated along the surface of a moving river, quick to the rapids.

He wakes with a jerk, and rides out the vertigo in the half-dark. He seeks out Sam‘s silhouette by long-learned habit. If Sam‘s still lying there nearby, things aren‘t half as bad as they could be, certainly.

It was definitely non-consensual there at the end, last week in the iron-plated panic room with Death holding a spindly hand over Sam’s gaping mouth, Dean just standing there and looking on, letting it happen. It had been pretty damn horrible, but now, with the careful cocktail of soul and memories and sensibilities that makes Sam himself, surely this Sam will thank him eventually.

Dean is swimming in these thoughts, and Sam is snuffling in his sleep like he can’t breathe through his nose. The common cold seems like the most anti-climactic response to being re-souled, but where getting shot up or clawed is always suffered quietly, real-Sam tends to get pretty melodramatic about cold-like symptoms. Dean can expect a whole lotta whining come breakfast, if past experience is still something to go on.

He is edging back towards unconsciousness when Sam lets out a half-sob, a broken sound that could be just a sleep-noise, but it’s got Dean shooting up out of his dream-state, and standing in the shadows between beds, the covers pooling off the mattress and onto the floor without his noticing.

He stands still, breath held, listening. He mentally bitches at being woken up, while another part of him is, for lack of a better term, panicking. Is Sam dreaming? Does dreaming count as picking at that drywall? The brain works things out in sleep, Dean knows that, his dreams having ventured far into what he’s tried and tried to block out forever. Is Sam bypassing wards right now, paralyzed and alone? Is this thing gonna implode already?

But Sam’s resumed his deep breathing, through his mouth, and probably Dean’s going to catch something too is all that’s going to happen. He hates being sick.

He’s making this into some sort of big thing. Sam’s out of danger for now. Maybe years down the road Dean will have to watch that wall crumble down around them both, but for now Sam’s just, finally, his brother again, whole and healthy enough, lying there in the dark. Dean’s standing stock still in the center of the clean-if-crappy one-room, eyes still half-lidded with sleep or half-open with concern, and if there’s any time to recognize it, it’s now. There’s a dull warmth which sits in his chest, right there behind his ribs to recognize and then tuck away again, always has been. It doesn’t help anything to pick things apart.

He gets into bed, Sam’s, not before grabbing his own pillow because, while Sam may already have two, the kid always manages to lose them off the side of the bed. The number of times they've shared a bed since they got back on the road can be counted on one hand, but even before Stanford they had really cut that out by the time Dean was a teenager, so that it was something that happened on the rare occasion, kind of secretive, and shameful, although Dean’s shame was the telltale sign, he could have parsed it out and felt the edges if he’d cared to, even back then.

Consequently, Dean feels like he’s about fourteen years old and dad’s in the other bed, ready to flip on the lights and find him slipping out of the extra cot and into Sam’s bed because he or Sam’s had some sort of real-life bad dream. However, he’s ready to explain for both of them how of course it hadn’t been a bad dream, bad dreams are for babies and girls. Dean feels like he’s seventeen and too lazy to get off of Sam’s bed because the other one’s covered in weapons and socks, or like he’s twenty-two, too big for his own skin while post-fight Sam lies there angrily in the queen bed, one of only two rooms left, dad having stormed off to the other. In his memory, Sam’s muttering beside him, “See, this is just one more reason to leave, too old for this shit.”

Dean can separate it though, how there’s a part of him that’s been estranged from Sam in the worst kind of way which makes him want to grab onto him just about everywhere they go.

Sam lies still beside him for a few seconds, long enough for Dean to punch his own pillow with his face instead of his fist, and curl up on his side, resisting his body’s need to roll towards the dip his brother’s gigantic form creates in the center of the mattress. But then suddenly Sam’s moaning a bit, and Dean’s ready for that. It must be a nightmare. He has one hand smoothing over Sam’s back in a second flat, Sam’ll never have to know. The white t-shirt he’s got on is bunching under Dean's fingers, sweaty to the touch.

“Gross, dude,” Dean whispers. Sam rolls back a bit against Dean’s splayed hand in answer, and Dean’s wrist twinges.

He grumbles and moves back, edging his leg out from where Sam’s rolled onto it, and Sam sighs in his sleep restively, enough that Dean feels like he ought to rearrange them both to facilitate comfort. He gets up on one elbow, feeling pleased that at least he’s able to shut Sam up a bit and distantly interested to find his hand’s come to a rest on Sam’s hip in a staying motion, like he’s steadying him or something.

And that’s where it should stop. Dean should fall asleep knowing that he’s providing the sort of support he (minorly, subconsciously and manfully) could have done with, too, after getting back from Hell. If he falls asleep now, Sam will probably roll his eyes in the morning, and Dean will extricate himself with a cool, “I’m not your teddy bear, Samantha,” or something else witty, flippant, and annoying, Sam pushing him off to go take a shower; in short, effective. But instead—

Instead Dean’s just settled there behind Sam, letting the moments slip past until the rest is exposed. He’s adjusting his lay on the mattress into a compromise of a configuration, an arrangement of bodies where Sam can just lie back a bit and Dean can still be comfortable. This isn’t too strange, people probably do this sort of thing all the time, get up near each other in the dark when the nightmares are writ large over the sleeping mind.

This decided upon, Dean squeezes Sam’s hip as a sort of goodnight gesture, ready to relax, but Sam’s breath hitches on a sound of surprise.

Dean stills, worried about making any movements, because he does not want to explain himself right now, how this seems like a good idea even when it is obviously not, how his hand fits better over Sam’s hip than it did Lisa’s. He’s too tired for this shit, his thoughts are crazy night thoughts. Can’t a guy get some sleep in peace?

After a second of quiet, he lowers his head onto the pillow, only to find that his nose is like in Sam’s hair. For once he sees the good in Sam washing that crazy mop every damn day. Dean’s accidentally taking in a giant nose full of hair-smell, but it’s clean, and it really just smells like more of Sam and whatever 99c suave bottle that’s been kicking around in the backseat. It’s a warm smell, Dean should really have turned down the air conditioning before he crashed out for the night, because, while his front is really very hot where Sam’s all pressed back against him, his back is freezing suddenly, and down his exposed arm.

He’s got crazy shivers going on, like out of nowhere, and he moves his face so that he’s not breathing in Sam’s head, but rather his forehead’s up there, and his nose is, at worst, pressed into the side of Sam’s neck. He coils his arm under the covers, pulling it around them both, while Sam coughs quietly in his sleep.

“I gotcha buddy,” Dean says, the words pressed against the skin.

“Mmhm."

“You’re awake,” he realizes aloud, kind of accusatory.

“Kinda hard to sleep when someone’s manhandling you,” Sam grumps. But it’s all a precursor to a huge yawn, and then a worrying groan, saying: “Dean, I feel really, really bad.”

“Want me to move?”

“Naw, you’re good.” Cuz Sam recognizes, too, that it’s no big thing. “Man, I feel so out of it. My whole body kind of aches, and just, my head is like a cloud.”

“Tomorrow I’m gonna load you up on Gatorade and crackers,” Dean promises, real magnanimous, but Sam does not sound impressed when he says: “That is touching but gross.”

“Electrolytes, man,” Dean says, and it is so surreal, this conversation, how they’re talking like this is nothing, but then Sam shoves back against him like that with his whole body, aligning them just right, and the last word goes breathy enough to give him away.

He slides the hand down over Sam’s stomach, because dude, Sam was almost holding his hand the way he’d moved his arm, their fingers almost touching, which would have been really weird. Sam sighs really loudly, and Dean says, admonishing,“Gatorade has saved us time and again, don’t want you dying when it was perfectly easy to get you liquids, just got you back,” talking against Sam’s neck because maybe it will feel weird enough to make him laugh rather than sighing up a storm there.

“Dean, I told you, I was still me then, just a little less emotional.”

“Try insane. You were like a freaking robot.“

“Just get me dayquil tomorrow, okay,” Sam says kind of pathetically, which is so not what Sam would ever say, his or the robo version, but it’s got some measure of fond exasperation to it, so Dean accepts it. He is done being suspicious of Sam, whether or not he’s back like before. His brother is still mostly asleep, anyhow, not having seen it necessary to jerk to full wakefulness when Dean had shoved into the bed behind him, because if it had been anyone else, Dean knows Sam would have had the guy on the floor in a fraction of a second. That does something to Dean’s whole life view that he didn’t anticipate, an uncomfortable hedging of thoughts.

While Dean is having a quiet epiphany, Sam is stretching out, and Dean tries to give him room, but fails pretty spectacularly when Sam’s leg just falls between his and holy God are they too close, it’s like light shone across the world, that knowledge.

Dean removes his hand carefully from where he was rubbing across Sam’s abdomen in slow circles, because perhaps he has soothed that nightmare out of him enough, and now he can just extricate himself without this getting embarrassing for the both of them. It’s gone from maybe excusable, a half-dream, to reality.

“Okay, bag of bricks, you wanna get off me a little?” he shoves at Sam’s shoulder.

Maybe he’s misjudged it, anyway. These are the actions of a very sick person, loopy and warmth-seeking. This is like when one of them’s been almost wasted by some demon and afterward Sam touches Dean for minutes, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and shoving him around a little, and besides, Sam’s just been kinda reborn, memories of his time in the cage nudged back into the periphery. Even if he doesn’t fully feel it, the change of self would be enough to make someone reel and cling onto the closest support.

Nothing else could explain the way Sam’s rolled back into him and is hooking an ankle around Dean’s, way down there where Dean can’t even be bothered to focus on. Maybe Sam’s really sick. He tests the temperature of Sam’s neck for fever with his lips – not too hot – and then extricates his arm from Sam’s clinging grip to test his own forehead, flat palmed, and then fumbles for Sam’s.

“Whoops poked you in the eye there, buddy,” he says to Sam’s annoyed jerk away from him.

“You’re not burning up or anything,” he says, king of bedside manner, and Sam huffs a laugh, but shivers against him at the loss of Dean’s arm, maybe something else.

Dean chooses that endless moment to take a breath, about to get out of the bed, drawing some measure of relief into his lungs which he near chokes on when Sam rubs back against him again, sleepylike.

Dean comes awake, every cell in his body a little pop of energy, and he’s back to smoothing his hand over Sam’s hot front, again, v-neck bunching up under the sure push of his fingertips. He makes to pull back, but inexplicably bites soft at the back of Sam’s neck, impossible not to, just a nip and then mouths over it so he won’t say anything he might regret. Maybe Sam won’t notice.

“Get back to sleep,” Dean says, and shoves off, but Sam moans, a deep sound, right from the gut, unashamed in a way that makes Dean’s face light up like fire.

“What-“ Dean starts, because there’s really no mixed signals there.

The silence presses in like they’re in a vacuum, and Dean wishes the lamp were on, maybe it could illuminate—

“Just-“ Sam says, but that year and a half as a soulless dude’s got him trained to speak in actions rather than words, and he reaches back and anchors Dean where he’s lying.

“Uh,” Dean says.

Sam sounds helpless as he strains his head against the pillow, and Dean’s on some sort of impossible high right now, one arm trapped uncomfortably beneath him as he leans down to mouth along Sam's smooth neck, maybe speaking. He sinks forward tentatively, and his dick is like pushing against Sam’s ass right now, through the fabric of their boxers, between his legs and Sam is sprawling back against him like he’s boneless, and it’s in-fucking-credible.

He scabbles at Sam’s leg, grasping around to splay him wide, pulling him back against Dean with hard fingers to the inner thigh, and Sam resists for just a second, but then just starts breathing in this shuddering way that’s got Dean panting against Sam’s ear, kind of wet so he can feel it, “You gotta stop, Sammy,” and he's running his palm like crazy over the soft skin of Sam’s inner thigh, up the boxer leg, real close, over Sam’s hip.

“Fucking Christ,” Sam says. “Holy shit.”

“If you wanna, I mean, I will—” Dean promises, voice steadier than the rest of him as he pulls Sam stutteringly back against him, cock grinding into the dip of Sam’s ass unevenly and then pushing his hand up Sam’s useless shirt, already damp and clinging.

There’s only a band of elastic that stands in his way. Dean’s faced down demons and angels, heaven and hell incarnate, but he palms Sam instead, through his boxers, parsing out the hard line of his dick, and working it through the fabric. It’s somehow dirtier like that, rather than less damning as he’d intended. Sam can’t seem to decide whether to push back or thrust forward. Oh God he’s screwed.

“Gonna make you feel real good,” he finds himself saying, which is, objectively, the complete truth. He’s a god in bed. He pulls Sam harder, tight back against him, and Sam moans again, breathless, dipping back and bumping Dean's dick against the crease of his ass. Dean's a god, but Sam’s got him fraying at the seams.

That’s it. Dean sits up. Sam falls against the bed momentarily before Dean barks, “Up,” and Sam says, “What?” but sits up anyway and lets Dean strip off his shirt in a tangle of limbs. Dean tosses it so it hits the plastic blinds with a loud clattering sound. Then he is all over that shit, clambering in a dignified way into a position to knock Sam’s bent knees apart, shouldering his way between them and smoothing his hands down the back of Sam’s thighs, under boxer material and up to grab him by the ass, dipping his head to rub his face against the hard tent in Sam’s lap.

“Holy fuck, I can’t—“ Sam says, but Dean opens his mouth as wide as it will go, tonguing Sam through his boxers until the fabric’s soaked through. Sam’s pulling pretty hard, trying to find purchase but his fingers keep slipping through Dean’s short hair, and then Dean imagines they’re in the opposite situation, his hands tugging at Sam’s hair, and he goes for it and tugs Sam’s shorts down, and takes Sam in his mouth with little preamble.

Dean's done this once or twice, had to see for himself. It was dark like this, those times, but he took it hesitantly, bobbing over the guy's lap and feeling an uncomfortable strain in the back of his neck, his lower back. He'd felt the nudging of boredom, of trying to hurry so he'd get his.

This time, though. This time.

Sam has both knees up, framing Dean's shoulders, and he's making these noises that send hot coils in Dean's insides. Dean's running a hand down the back of Sam's bare leg, and intermittently up his chest, which is heated and hard. He's got his own spit dripping down his chin, and he fucking loves it.

Sam comes in Dean’s mouth less than a minute later, those sixty longest seconds of Dean’s life, and he can feel Sam’s dick pressing way back against the back of his throat. He almost gags. He's weirdly zazzing, all his nerve receptors firing and he's ecstatic in an abstract, too-big-to-handle kind of way.

The puns are endless, and when Sam yanks him up by the elbow, Dean smiles against his mouth. Sam is saying incoherent nothings against his lips, the warm press of mouths, and Dean answers with ridiculous things like, “Don’t say I never did nothing for yeh,” and “So, whaddaya say, Sammy,” until Sam laughs breathlessly, mouth opening to him, saying, “Will it never stop.” Dean murmurs, “Probably not,” wanting to agree with anything and everything Sam says to him, ever, just to have the last word.

He presses Sam in hard against the headboard and positively plunders his mouth with his tongue.

The world is a bright place, even though it's two am and they’re in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, New Mexico, the parking lot lights probably flickered out years ago. Sam’s moving slowly now, drawing Dean down into his dream world with a leg hooked around Dean’s waist. Dean’s breathing slow, and tight, because he is still harder than anything, on his knees and pressing again against Sam’s ass, but this time he’s got Sam shoved hard against the headboard and is humping into him slowly with Sam just moaning and spent while Dean flat-palms the wood behind Sam for something to work against, leaning in heavily as he thrusts forward.

It goes on forever. Dean's suddenly all about taking his time, has never done it like this before, it's strange and his whole body is already sore and Sam's probably scrunched in the weirdest position, but it's just great. No other word for it.

When he comes, it’s a mess, they didn’t even get their boxers fully off. He’s got Sam smashed up against the headboard, one of Sam’s huge hands is grabbing at his ass still and Dean rolls out and off to the side.

Sam follows him down in a slow collapse, stretching out on his front and muttering something about “fucking knew it,” and “wish I’d put money on this,” which Dean’ll probably end up asking him about tomorrow, right along with the bit of healthy what-the-fuck style moments scattered throughout, but for now he’s just tugging a pillow back from where Sam’s managed to pull them all to his side, arranging it so he’s comfortable and stretching out like it’s heaven, the whorled sheets like freakin clouds.

“Feel like I haven’t slept in weeks,” he says, voice gone all gravelly, but Sam understands him. He smooths a quick hand down the dip of Sam’s back, just because he can, he needs to make sure.

“Try not sleeping for a year,” Sam’s mumbling into the mattress, clearly dropping into a sick, sleep haze, maybe never left it. “Could of done with some of this when I had all that time. Could have fucked you all night, instead of all those nights I spent watching you sleep. Now I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“One, that’s creepy as hell, watching me sleep,” Dean says. Sam smiles with his eyes closed, Dean can sort of make it out. “And two, I’m not fucking a robot, dude.”

“Wasn’t a robot, for the last time,” Sam insists. “Flesh and blood. And didn’t we decide that robot was the way to go?”

“That was Zombies or Robots when we were like fifteen, Sam, get some freaking context,” he sighs.

He's falling asleep to memories of stupid This vs That games in the back of the Impala. They're speeding away in rain and shine, dad like a superhero in the front while Sam kicks at the back of the seat and Dean tries to see how many twizzlers he can fit in his mouth.

He doesn’t really do spooning or really all that much touching after the fact, likes his own space, doesn’t want to end up too entangled that he can’t sneak out by dawn. But Sam’s a foot away, and looks like he could use another hug.

He reaches out, maybe to do it under the guise of arranging the sheets, but Sam’s grabbing out at the same time. Dean lets out a sigh of disdain, to which Sam says, “Yeah, so put upon, aren’t you,” and hauls him in a bit closer, hand wound in the front of Dean’s t-shirt.


End file.
